


America

by jericho



Category: Blur
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're on a shit tour and feeling miserable, nothing brightens your day like a little male bonding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	America

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in around 1993 during Blur's first tour of America, when they thought they'd be as big as they were in England on to find that grunge had taken over the continent.

The tour bus rolled along the endless stretch of highway, and there was nothing to see for miles. Dave pressed his forehead against the window, the glass a little colder than it should have been. Outside was flat. Flat brown fields, not the rich green they were in England. No rolling hills or rock inclines like there were back home, nothing to distinguish one city from the next, one state from the other. No colour. He hated this country. 

He was a little drunk, of course. They all were. They hadn't always hated this country. At the start of the tour, America represented opportunity. Millions of fans who hadn't heard their genius yet, whole new crowds to go nuts for, "untapped markets." America the beautiful. But all this flat expanse of nothing represented now was failure. Hurt pride. An excuse to drink. 

Budweiser. The can sat in the little holder in front of Dave, warm by now. Instinct told him to dump it down the drain and get another one, but who knew how long they'd have money. Besides, it wasn't like him to just waste a beer like that, so he suffered through it, hoping it would at least give him a little more of a buzz by the time he was done. Tolerance was turning into a fat ugly bastard that only grew in size. And Budweiser was such a shit beer, too. It had none of the thick, grainy flavour of the beer back home. No personality. No wonder Americans were no fun. 

The bus hit a bump, sending a tiny jolt through everything inside of it, but Dave barely noticed. Flat, flat, speed bump, flat, everything shifting forward as the bus slowed down for a stop sign or sideways as they turned a sharp corner. They slept through it now, like they slept through everything. 

There was the metallic scrape of the curtain being pulled back that divided the living area from the bunks, and Damon slapped his hand against the frame. "Dave." It wasn't a question that required an answer, just a random greeting. Damon flopped down next to him, and it wasn't until he put his hand in front of Dave to get his attention that Dave realized he was holding a joint. 

"How are you?" Damon asked as Dave grabbed the joint with his fingertips. 

"Fucking miserable." Dave took a deep drag, feeling the moisture on the tip from the other pair of lips that had been on it. The smoke filling his throat and lungs was a welcome feeling, and he held it in as long as possible before exhaling. 

"Don't be miserable." Dave could feel Damon's electric blue eyes on him, another sensation everyone had gotten used to. Being studied came with the territory when Damon was around. "Make the best of it, eh? We might as well have a little fun." Damon leaned sideways and turned on the radio, which hadn't gotten any stations for miles. This time it did. The Smiths "How Soon is Now." _I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does._ Token, predictable, but it was music, and it was more than they'd had since Graham punched the stereo about 100 miles back. 

They sat in blissful silence, passing the joint back and forth, and Dave felt the tiny sensations that he recognized as the steady progression toward being stoned. The numb lips. The headspins. The feeling that he could move his hands but that they were detached from him somehow, like they were something he was holding rather than a part of him. The numbness that started at the top of his legs and spread downward. Far out. 

He hadn't even noticed that Nirvana had come on until Alex busted through the curtain like a stripper from a giant birthday cake. "Turn that shit off," he wailed, and hit the radio with such enthusiasm that it fell backward and landed on its side. 

"Don't break the fucking radio now," Dave said with as much energy as he could muster. 

"Sorry, Dave. Are you baked? I'm baked." The next thing Dave saw was Alex's ass coming toward him, his band mate landing on his lap like he was ready to curl up. 

"...the fuck off me," Dave said, giving Alex such a shove that he landed on the floor. He hadn't really meant to do that. Lately he felt like a regular human who had suddenly mutated into a beast or a demon. He didn't know his own strength. 

"Rude!" Alex collected himself from the floor, movements agile despite his claims of being baked. 

"Go bother Graham," Damon said lightly. 

"Fine," Alex said, then tossed a half-hearted "cunts!" over his shoulder before disappearing through the curtain again. 

"At least you didn't punch him that time," Damon said, taking another deep toke. His eyes were heavy, irises little specks of blue under long lids. Dave couldn't tell if he was noticing this or imagining it, and he watched Damon's lips part and a wad of smoke drift from between them. "Oh well. They'll stay back there and blow each other." 

"Really?" Dave changed his posture for the first time in 20 minutes. He couldn't tell if Damon was kidding or not. It wasn't that he'd be surprised if he wasn't, but Dave hadn't realized it was so...rampant. The bus did occasionally have the smell of sex, a subtle undertone to the usual dirty sock and underarm smell that followed the band everywhere it went, but that could come from anything - groupies, wanking, his imagination. He'd never really thought about it. 

"Really." Damon nodded, and his grin spread across his face slowly, like spilled ink. "That's what you need, you know. A good blow job." 

"I've had them," Dave said, taking the joint back and inhaling thoughtfully. Even sex was kind of boring lately. He'd been laid so many times by so many different people that it was quickly losing its appeal. Another face, another person to have to be nice to, another set of anonymous legs wrapped around him from someone who provided the same quality of conversation he'd expect to get from a nursery school class. 

"No, you haven't." Damon's tone was so certain, and with such arrogance, that when he felt Damon's fingers on his to take the joint away, Dave half knew what was coming. Damon's fingers touched his jaw, gently pulling his head to the side, and Dave closed his eyes on instinct. And then there were lips against his, warm, dry, forcing his open and a thumb moving across his neck. Damon's tongue snaked into his mouth immediately, his hand resting on the back of Dave's head and pulling him closer, so their mouths were open wide against each other. Damon sucked on the tip of his tongue, using that to establish a deep, slow rhythm. And Damon was right. Dave had never quite been kissed like that before. It was enough to cut through the haze of being stoned and send a shiver down his spine, through his groin, all the way down to his toes. 

He felt the cushions against his back, legs parting automatically and Damon resting between them, his body on top of him, mouths kissing with abandon. Damon paused and ran his finger across Dave's bottom lip. "I'm going to give you one, all right?" 

"All right," Dave breathed. Normally he was the aggressor. Always, always, he was the one who took control. But his experience with men ended with drunken make out sessions because there was nothing better to do. Damon had been doing this since grammar school. 

Damon lifted Dave's shirt up to his nipples, swollen lips placing moist kisses down his stomach. Dave couldn't help but suck in his breath. Come on, he thought. You've had this before. Put your hand on his head, tangle his hair in your fingers, make an appreciative noise. Check, check, check. It's only Damon. 

And it was, except this was a side Dave had always known existed but hadn't seen first hand. The sexual predator, the "I want your dick in my mouth now" aspect of his personality. The control was on the other side of the seesaw, and Dave was stuck in the air, legs outstretched, white knuckled as he clung to the handle bar. 

Damon undid the button on his jeans roughly, not wasting time. The zipper was down in seconds, fabric peeled back and lowered when Dave raised his hips. Then he felt that his cock had been freed, the warm air against it, and then realized that was Damon's breath. Damon paused and looked up at him, and Dave's eyes opened long enough to see a wildcat grin. "You're going to love how good this feels." 

Normally, being stoned dulled all of the sensations in his body. But he felt it when Damon's tongue wiggled across his cock, and when he took it in his mouth and lapped at the head of it. Dave had read somewhere that 50 or 60 or some high percentage of the nerve endings were at the head of the dick, and he'd always found that to be true. And that was something Damon obviously knew, because the things he was doing, the way his tongue was tickling and teasing and licking was sending little lightning bolts through Dave's body. 

By the time Damon's hot mouth lowered onto it, taking it all in and giving it a damp suck, even Dave's brain was throbbing. "Christ," he gasped, grabbing at the back of the couch, head tilted and body arching as a rhythm began. And it only got better, the burning, throbbing sensation, like his blood was pumping a thousand miles an hour. He wasn't going to come. He knew that. He was stoned, and he'd been drinking, and those kinds of chemicals were never good for orgasms. Maybe he should tell him. 

"I'm not going to..." Dave gasped. Damon's hand was at the base of his dick now, his thumb pushing at the spot just above his balls, mouth slurping and tugging and working him over in a way he'd never experienced before. "I'm not...." 

His voice rose a notch, barely recognizable in his own head, and then everything fizzled, the thoughts replaced with static. He came hard, without warning, body straining and and breath diminished to weak pants. He wasn't sure what Damon was doing, and didn't really care. He just hung onto the couch, bucking his hips until it finally faded and the world stopped spinning. 

He opened his eyes to see Damon above him, bending and kissing his nose. "You're not what?" Damon asked with a smile. 

"Nothing. Just...Jesus." Dave looked down, thinking he needed to get things in order, but there was nothing to clean up. Damon had swallowed it all and licked his lips like a well fed cat. Astounding. 

Dave sat up, reeling for a moment, suddenly twice as tired as he had been before. He zipped up his pants and grabbed the warm beer. 

Damon settled back on the couch and pulled another joint out of his shirt pocket. "Feeling better?" 

"Yeah. Cheers." Dave took the joint when it was offered him, another toke soothing his nerves, the situation shifting back to where they'd left it a few minutes ago. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, world right side up, and the bus rolled on. 


End file.
